


ghosts of the west (rdr2 oneshots)

by doqteeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Cowboys, Death, F/M, Guns, Romance, i dont know how to write anyone except for arthur so please bear w me, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 22:10:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17837060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doqteeth/pseuds/doqteeth
Summary: just some fun lil blurbs between dumb cowboys n a cowgirl reader. love these bastards.





	1. americans at rest [arthur/reader]

He would never understand just how you did it. He came to this conclusion on a sunny afternoon, standing knee-deep in long stalks of green haygrass, thumbs hooked in his belt loops as he watched you approach a wild mustang.

He was beginning to think he would never truly understand you in general. You had come to him that morning, a spark in your eyes and a mischievous lilt to your words.

“Arthur, what’re you doin’ today?” you hummed, your hands lightly brushing on his arm, a touch reserved for only the most flighty of beasts. Arthur was one of them.

He glanced at you from under the brim of his well-worn hat, his hand clutching a tin of coffee. “Hosea’s been wantin’ t’ take me huntin’. I s’pposed this was as good a day as any. Why? What’ve you got for me?”

You squared your shoulders back and smiled, your hands planted resolutely on your hips. “I was wonderin’ if you wanted to learn how t’ tame a horse.”

It wasn’t a question, nor a demand, but Arthur answered like it was the former.

“Sure. You wantin’ to go now?” he said. He always gave in to your demands. It was funny in a way--the big strong outlaw Arthur Morgan bending over backwards for a woman that asked very little of him.

“Yeah, if you’re done with your coffee.” you said, smiling invitingly before turning on your heel and ambling over to Arthur’s horse. You’d been wanting a horse for a long while now, and it was a marvel you didn’t have one. You had a way with the animals--no matter how timid, how aggressive, how frightened, how feral the horse you were with was behaving, your gentle words and miracle touches could soothe it and calm it like no other. 

It was this quality that drew Arthur to you in the first place. At first, it was only business--his horse was limping on its left hind leg and he wanted you to take a look. So you did, and within in a few minutes, you extracted a painful-looking bramble from the animal’s fetlock and planted it in the palm of Arthur’s hand. You told him to keep the wound clean and that it would heal soon enough. But it was not only your horsemanship that drew him. 

Arthur Morgan was comparable to a Shire, or a Belgian Draft. He was calm, resolute, steady; but was strong and absolutely capable of causing destruction and damage if he so chose. But all horses and all humans are curious, and when Arthur met you he immediately wanted to know more. You were new to the gang, picked up in a small town on the cusp of the Grizzlies, and functioned as the veterinarian and the horseman whenever the gang’s steeds had issues.

You were friendly and cooperative enough, but it was when you were around the horses that you really shone. You were gentle, calming, almost magical in the way you could make the animals move or bend to your command. You kept the horses healthy and strong through the frozen mountain passes and steep snow drifts, and the gang was unwittingly indebted to you on that front.

But you never asked. You never asked for compensation, or repayment, or, hell, even your own horse. You did the chores with the other girls without complaint, and would help the men if needed. It was this honest part of you, this dependable, selfless part of you that pulled at Arthur Morgan’s heartstrings. 

But he kept his slowly growing feelings hidden from you.

As the weather warmed and the ice ruts on the wagon wheels melted, the gang packed up and left their camp in the mountains, and you followed with them. You continued tending to the horses, but you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t feeling a fair bit of jealousy when you saw the men ride out on their horses to go rob a homestead or track down some O’Driscoll hideout.

You were itching for your own horse--you wanted to ride on the open plains and gallop headlong into thunderstorms and wade through crystalline rivers.

So, one lazy summer afternoon, you bugged Arthur into coming with you.

When he was ready to go, he found you leaning against his horse, gently petting her neck and feeding her crumbled oatcakes. You were singing something very, very quietly--barely audible, in fact,-- but his horse seemed to enjoy it. The scene made his heart skip for a moment.

“Don’t feed her too much,” he chided, helping you onto the animal. “She’ll get round as a barrel.”

You laughed, and Arthur’s ears turned red.

It was a decent length ride into the plains where the mustang herds haunted. Arthur was grumbling good-naturedly when you finally told him to stop, but you didn’t say anything back to his light-hearted jabs. Your eyes were fixed on a gorgeous Grullo Dun mustang, a powerful-looking horse that tossed its head wildly in the searing sun. 

“Hell of an animal,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.

And that was when he really got to see you work.

You moved with a fluidity unknown to him, an easiness that only came with practice. The grass seemed to part for you in the breeze, and the horse was stomping its hooves nervously. It didn’t run, though. They never ran.

You reached your hands out, an oatcake perched on your flat palm as a peace offering. There were words coming from your lips; a steady stream of encouraging coos and murmurs. The horse was curious but uncertain. It would reach its broad head forward and then yank it back a moment later as though it had been burned. But despite the stamping hooves and frightened snorts, you persisted.

He could only watch with wonder as the mustang took the oatcake from your hand, as you ran a hand down its powerful neck.

It was warm and hot on that afternoon, but when you turned to him and beamed, he swore you were brighter than the sun.


	2. filler shit theres like 5 words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yeeyee

literally just filler my bruvs


End file.
